It Might Have Been
by browsofglory
Summary: Arthur is the best assassin in the fiefdom. So, naturally, he has the best chance of killing the changeling that had infiltrated Lord Edelstein's court, as promised by a long-forgotten faerie curse. Arthur is suddenly thrown into a terrible world of court intrigue, where every word could be a lie - just as a string of murders begins.
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia. It belongs to Hidekaz Himaruya and any and all other respective owners.**

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Long ago, the House of Carriedo and the House of Edelstein formed an alliance, merging their two fiefdoms. Lord Ferdinand offered the heir to his house, Antonio, to marry the firstborn daughter of the House of Edelstein, Vanessa. The wedding was to be a grand affair. Vanessa wanted it to be outside, and so it was; Vanessa wanted it to be at night, and so it was; Vanessa wanted it to be on Midsummer, and so it was.

The sole person who spoke out against this was Erik, Vanessa's younger brother and the middle son in the family. He was not to inherit anything but a small tract of land on the outskirts of the House of Edelstein's feudal area and an unused summer home. He was quite outspoken and superstitious, and most people assumed him crazy because he often consulted the local greenwitches before making important decisions.

He insisted that doing the wedding outside on Midsummer's Night was not wise, as Midsummer's Night was when the faeries emerged from their hidden world and danced the night away, becoming drunk on elderberry wine and showing themselves off to the world. He warned that they tended to snatch any humans who dared look at them, if only for a moment, because faeries see a human glance as an offence punishable by an eternity of servitude. If any human sees their ethereal beauty, they will not survive to tell the tale; they will enjoy that one night with the faeries and then be taken away with them to act as their slave.

"Any person who has wandered into the forest on Midsummer's Night has not ever returned," he said, almost in fear, as if he had seen the misdeeds of the faeries first-hand, "and it is ill-advised to go. Only Hell awaits you."

Not one of the members of either family listened to him, as he was viewed as insane, and so each person entered the forest at sundown, carrying lavish gifts for the bride and groom to be. There were precious metals and expensive jewels, some sown into tiaras or goblets; there were spices and perfumes from far away lands; there were the finest silks and the softest weaves. The wedding was held under a clump of rowan trees, because the birds gathered in their branches and Vanessa was quite partial to nature. A long table and chairs for it were arranged, lanterns were strung from the branches of the surrounding trees, and finally, the altar was situated on a mound.

Both families gathered in the forest for the event, though Erik stayed at the Edelstein estate, for his sense of foreboding never faded. The priest stood behind the altar and read passages from the Bible, blessing the marriage. As the sun began to set behind him, he pronounced Antonio and Vanessa husband and wife. In the golden glow of the dying light, they kissed and their families cried and cheered.

The huge Midsummer moon rose behind the crowd, almost orange in colour, and the muggy air seemed to begin shimmering. The lanterns were lit, creating a surreal glimmer, but no stars poked out from behind the clouds. It was hot - too hot, but no one minded. The gifts that were brought for the newlywed couple were passed on to them and piled up on a table for transport back to the manor that Vanessa and Antonio would be living in. The guests danced and sang and ate and drank, and everyone there ridiculed Erik and his superstitious beliefs, saying that he spent too much time immersing himself in folklore as a child.

Until a man arrived, a man with ethereal beauty - and a man that no one knew. He appeared to glow, if only a little, and carried himself with a grace no human could achieve. Indeed, it was a faerie, a malicious one who spoke for the rest of his kind.

"This is our land," he stated, voice commanding through its calm. "This is the sacred land of the faeries. You have defiled it by dancing upon its soil, tainted its air with your human breath, dirtied it with your rituals. You must all suffer the consequences."

Lord Ferdinand scoffed. "Ha! Who are you? There is no way that you are a faerie! Faeries are not real; they are just stories made by midwives to soothe children."

The faerie glared at him with such ice in his gaze that the lord froze.

"I _am_ a faerie. If you need any more proof, please do ask," he sneered, and all eyes went to the lord of the House of Carriedo, frozen in ice from a mere glance of the stranger. "You may refer to me as Lukas. My real name would give you a power that humans should not wield.

"The Faerie Queen demands that you spend eternity shackled to her, as recompense for not only using our land, but gazing upon a faerie."

He searched the crowd, and each person he looked at glanced away or closed their eyes, for they could not gaze upon his beauty directly for too long. Lukas' eyes settled on the pile of fine gifts on the table and the corners of his lips turned up in the beginnings of a sadistic smile; you see, faeries are very greedy creatures and will do anything to get their hands on some gold.

"However, she would be willing to let it slide if each of you offered your wealth, your jewels and your gifts to her," he reasoned, head tilted in a feline kind of way.

The guests were speechless. Finally, Vanessa spoke, high and shrill with fear.

"We will not give anything to you! We owe you nothing! Leave us alone, foul beast!"

Lukas tsked and snapped his fingers. Suddenly, every flame was snuffed out, and the guests at the wedding began to scream.

"A shame," he sighed, sounding genuinely disappointed. "Your bloodlines deserve to end anyways, I suppose, if you refuse a faerie, an immortal being with ancient magick."

Dark figures emerged from the trees, and one by one, the guests were stolen into the forest under a Midsummer Night's moon. Each person was taken until it was only Vanessa and Antonio left. Antonio was on his knees, his rosary clutched in his hands with the cross pressed to his lips, and Vanessa stood trembling in fear, unable to believe what was happening.

Lukas frowned down at Antonio and strode past him to Vanessa. He raised an eyebrow at her, as her face was drained of all colour and her eyes were dull. That was the only display of amusement he allowed to slip past his mask of boredom.

"Is there anyone else?" Lukas demanded.

She blinked slowly at him. "Pardon me?"

"Is there anyone else in your filthy excuse for a House?"

Slowly, Vanessa nodded. "Yes."

Then she hesitated to continue, guilty that she was about to sell out her only remaining brother.

Lukas tapped his foot on the ground impatiently. "Well?"

She kept her mouth shut, eyes steeling over with protectiveness for her brother, for the future of the House of Edelstein and now, too, the House of Carriedo. Lukas, who did not mind dealing out sentences, drew a dagger from its sheath on his belt, the metal of the blade gleaming in the strange light of the Midsummer moon. Without a second thought, he levelled it with her neck, pressing it into her skin just hard enough that it drew blood. She went rigid.

"Come on, _Lady Vanessa,_ I haven't got all day." Lukas rolled his eyes.

Antonio watched with eyes wide with terror. The rosary had tumbled from his fingers, and as Lukas pressed the blade further into her neck, he jumped up in a frenzy.

"Vanessa! Please, please just tell him! Maybe they will give us nicer treatment! This is not worth your life! Please! You are too important to me to die!" he begged.

Lukas turned to him with a tiny smile, and then back to Vanessa.

"Listen to your husband," he smirked. "I won't kill whoever it is you are trying to protect. I give you my word."

"Somehow I doubt your word is to be trusted-"

" _Vanessa,"_ Antonio cut her off in a sharp warning that was so rare for him. "Please. We have to trust him. You can't" - he glanced down at the place where the dagger dug into her flesh - "die."

She gulped and looked up, gazing over Lukas' shoulder because she dare not meet his eyes.

"My brother believed this to be a bad idea, because it is Midsummer's Night that the faeries enter the human realm to dance and sing under the stars," Vanessa began. "He stayed at our manor and refused to attend."

Lukas removed the dagger from her neck. "An intelligent human? What a surprise! But has long as he is related to you, Lady Vanessa, he deserves to be cursed for your sins."

Antonio smiled at her reassuringly, hugging Vanessa to him. She looked down at her feet, shoulders beginning to shake with silent sobs.

"I'm sorry, Erik," she whispered. Lukas heard.

He grinned like a cat that had just caught a mouse.

"Erik? Erik Edelstein? What an awful name!" he proclaimed. "No matter. Thank you, Vanessa! I am terribly glad you decided to share that information with me! Otherwise, I would have had to cut off your head, and that would be messy for both of us. Not to mention humans get _so_ emotional over such matters."

Antonio and Vanessa looked up at him, horrified. Lukas pretended he did not notice.

"I will honour my promise to you, Vanessa, and I will not kill your brother. However, you never said anything about his children, or his children's children," he mocked. "My Queen will have fun choosing how to curse them. Goodbye, Lord Antonio Fernández Carriedo and Lady Vanessa Edelstein...or is it Carriedo now? Whatever, I do not understand human customs. It was jolly meeting you both. Congratulations on the marriage."

Lukas faded into the trees and went to join the party the faeries were holding, and Vanessa and Antonio were snatched away by unfamiliar hands and never seen or heard from again.

The Faerie Queen, Natalya, cursed Erik for the sins of his relatives, as their eternal slavery was not enough; the House of Edelstein should be wiped from the face of the Earth in order to repay the faeries. She decided that, though Erik himself would not be harmed because the faeries are people of their word, sometime in the future, her kind would replace a noble child with a changeling who would grow up in the court of the House of Edelstein. The child would learn human customs and live with them until they begin to kill each of the members of the House of Edelstein, ending it forever. On their twentieth birthday, the changeling is to return to the forest, to the spot where it all began, and present proof of the family's demise. They will be accepted into faerie society as a hero if they succeed.

"The only way to stop the changeling is to carve out its heart with a knife made of iron," Queen Natalya proclaimed. "However, I doubt anyone could best a faerie, with its superhuman speed, strength, senses and its control of magick."

The House of Edelstein forgot about the curse, until a man showed up in the court generations later and told them to watch for the changeling. Suddenly, Lord Roderich, who did not take his training with a sword very seriously, must have someone find it and kill it before it finds and kills him.

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 **I will try to upload a new chapter as often as possible, but no promises that it will be consistent. I procrastinate a lot and probably shouldn't be trusted with multichapters.**

 **Also, in case anyone was wondering: Lord Fernández is 2P! Spain, Vanessa is 2P! Nyo! Austria, and Erik is 2P! Austria.**

 **Huge thanks to my friend for making me write this. I never would have without her pestering me to write a multichapter!**

 **Thanks for reading! Reviews are very much appreciated! :D**


	2. The Cluaran Assassin

Arthur was running. He was running and running and running and running, but they still gave chase. Did they know who he _was?_ Did they know that following him would only result in their deaths?

 _No,_ he decided with a forced smirk. _They're bloody thick._

His boots clacked on the cobblestones, a sound that meant that any guards on the street joined the growing crowd behind him. Part of Arthur smiled at the thought; this was a test, and he was damn well going to pass it. He was the best assassin out of the Kirkland family, and he was determined to prove it once and for all. Alistair had nothing on him.

His attempts to reassure himself did nothing, because betrayal still stung his heart, cold and raw. Leering faces flashed in his mind's eye. He told himself again that he didn't care, not really, for he _would_ prove them wrong and he _would_ emerge on top. He promised himself that as he ran through the ancient streets of Carriedo.

Still, at this point, it seemed rather hopeless. Arthur dared to glance back, and the crowd of guards chasing him had to be numbered around thirty. It hardly mattered how skilled he was now. Alistair specifically set this up so that Arthur couldn't win. They all did. No matter how much Arthur wanted to pretend that this hadn't been set up by his shitty-ass brothers, it was, and it _hurt._ He didn't love them, not really, but it still burned. He hated how they made him feel these types of emotions; he hated how they knew how to make him cry. It was a _weakness,_ just as Alistair always said it was, and they knew how to get him to show it.

 _When I get home,_ Arthur thought resentfully, _I'm going to rip their throats out. The lot of them. And then they'll regret ever doing this to me._

They had him on their leash, like a dog to be set upon intruders, and he was going to end it once and for all.

Arthur's heart was hammering in his chest, both from fear and from exertion. Of course, what he was doing right now hardly counted as exercise for him at all; he ran far more than this each day in training, but now he was not focussed, and each step became increasingly more difficult. The rough, uneven terrain of the cobbles and the heels of his boots were not helping the matter, and he could feel the strain that was being put on his legs.

The mob of guards was still giving chase. Arthur could hear them as he ducked under a baker's arm. They were screaming at him to _stop,_ and commanding the townspeople to move away from him because he was "dangerous". And they were right. He damn well _was_ dangerous. But he _did_ have morals; he considered himself a gentleman (even if killing people for money was not the most gentlemanly thing), and he most certainly would not murder some random person in the streets.

 _Even if they_ are _obstructing my path,_ Arthur grumbled inwardly was he skirted around a young woman with a baby in her arms.

Maybe it was not the best thing to do this on a market day. Then again, that was probably part of Alistair's plan.

The colours in the street were bright, all greens and blues and yellows. People were dressed in their best garments, examining the wares of the shopkeepers. Banners hung from the tall stone buildings on either side of the boulevard, baring the gold flower insignia of the House of Edelstein, and the street smelled mouth-wateringly of smoke and food. Arthur spotted a stall selling daggers and knives, all laid out upon a red cloth. They seemed to be of fine make, perhaps iron; their blades glinted sharply in the midday light, and he reminded himself to come back if he were ever to get himself out of this mess. The man behind the counter had a scar on his forehead and was smoking a long pipe, and Arthur tried to commit his face to memory.

The ghosts of smiles and laughs floated through in the air (they all seemed to fade as he and his posy barreled down the lane). The children who had been dancing around a maypole just a moment ago had stopped and were watching the scene with wide, awestruck eyes.

Lost in his thoughts, his legs moved mechanically and he nearly ran into a gaggle of shoppers, who screeched and flinched away.

"It's the Cluaran Assassin! Dear Lord, Ada, _run!_ He's going to kill us!" one of them, a boy probably around age sixteen, urged the rest of the people in his group.

They all cleared the street, and Arthur realised that his reputation had perks. _Many_ perks.

As soon as they were all safe – or what they perceived to be safe – the one that the boy had called Ada began to whisper to her friends.

"My father said that he is the fiercest assassin in the whole Empire! He said that the Kirklands are all ferocious, but the Cluaran Assassin has killed more people than all of them combined! He told me that Aunt Didrika…"

Her voice faded as Arthur passed them, and he considered flashing them one of those too-wide grins that Seamus and Patrick always did to freak out their victims. Mostly, he wanted to because he wanted to let out his anger at his family - if he could even call his brothers his family.

 _Right…_ Arthur attempted to get his mind back on track. _I need to get away from the guards. Escape is my number one priority. And then maybe I can stow away on a ship and just lay low for a while._

He dared another glance back at the guards, whose chainmail armour was clinking about and almost seemed to be glowing in the sunlight. Their tunics were adorned with the same gold flower symbol as the banners, but somehow, on the guards, it seemed much grimmer, much more malicious. Their swords were drawn.

Arthur wondered briefly why he hadn't encountered any archers on the rooves yet.

He considered his options. He could pull up his hood and just attempt to blend in with the crowd – but, no, he had attracted far too much attention now to do that. And even if he slipped by unnoticed, he still had the guards, the citizenry, (who seemed to recognise him far sooner than he felt they should), and Alistair's Guild of Assassins (who would probably find him if he avoided everything else) to worry about. No, trying to blend in would be far too risky. He could try to find cover and just wait the commotion out, or… Hold on!

There was a small alleyway off to the side of the street. And if Arthur recalled correctly, it led to the docks. It was perfect! He might even be able to catch a ship to Uisgeshire! He was home free. He gave one last glance back to the guards and lifted his middle and pointer fingers at them with a confident smirk before he veered to the right and ducked into the alley he had seen.

He was immediately assaulted by the smells of shit and piss and vomit and humans that had gone without a bath for far too long. He fought the urge not to gag. Of course, his brothers did not wash often, but it was nothing like this. This was the smell of despair and poverty; the air was thick with it.

The contrast between the alley and the street was incredible. Out there, there was colour and light and happiness, but in here, there was only the grey-black of dirty cinderblocks and the distorted brown of chipped wooden doors; the sun could not reach the ground, for the walls were too close together; people watched him coldly from where they leaned against the edge of dilapidated buildings. A band of what were likely thieves leered at Arthur as he ran past, showing him their cutlasses to see if he would flinch away in fear. A woman wearing a dress that showed far too much cleavage looked him up and down with calculating, almost desperate, eyes. He ignored them all.

There were shouts, and Arthur knew that the Guard was following him in. He didn't care, for he was so damn close to the freedom he so longed for. He kept running.

He rounded a sharp bend in the zig-zag shaped alleyway, and there was suddenly light. There was light, and the gentle sound of waves hitting a dock, and the smell of salt. There was the cry of seagulls and the shouts of sailors in foreign tongues and the creak of ships as they rocked in the ocean. Freedom was so close that it was almost tangible. He was _almost there._ He was going to make it. _He was going to make it._

The light was suddenly blotted out, like a painter putting on a dark layer of colour onto a white canvas. The pace of Arthur's heart quickened as he realized that those were human silhouettes that had blocked it.

 _They cut me off,_ Arthur thought in complete shock of the situation. But then shock melted into anger, and he mentally slapped himself. _Fuck! I should have bloody_ known!

He did a double take and prepared to turn back the way he came, but the guards from before were there. They were closing in on him from both sides.

"Oi, mate! You better scram, those guys'll fuck you up!" one of the thieves bellowed at him from behind a wall of guards as her group turned tail and ran.

 _Thanks,_ Arthur quipped bitterly. _I'll keep that in mind._

The people around him advanced until they were close enough to intimidate him, but not close enough for Arthur to land a hit on them. Arthur would have felt honoured, if his situation was not so dire.

One stepped forward slightly further than the rest, and Arthur snarled at him and drew his sword with the "shing" of metal on leather. His bottom lip pulled away from his teeth in warning.

The man cleared his throat importantly and Arthur heard himself scoff.

"The lord of Dh'Èirich asks that you lay down your weapons and come peacefully. He insists that it will be painless and that if you do, you will not be hanged for your crimes."

"Like _hell_ I won't!" Arthur growled.

The man ignored him and continued on with his speech. "He wishes for you to turn yourself in to us and simply accept the fate that is coming for you. And he wishes to remind you of the position that you currently find yourself in. He has given the order to kill you if you do not surrender, and we are far greater in number than you are. You cannot defeat us all. Please consider his proposition."

Arthur felt rage mingle with the chords of fear that had already begun to play in his chest.

"Consider _this!"_ he hissed, and spat at the man's feet. He grew up as the youngest in a family of assassins, so it hit him right on the toe of his boot.

The man's eyes narrowed at Arthur in fury and he raised his hand to give the order to advance. Part of Arthur wished that he had agreed to Edelstein's proposal, but his pride would not allow it.

Arthur slipped into a fighting stance, his sword, Cluaran, held in front of him defensively and a throwing knife gripped in the other hand. He didn't want to fight the entire crowd of guards.

He was used to close-quarters one-on-one combat, not fighting a whole group. And rumour had it that Lady Héderváry, a supposed warrior-princess from the North, trained each member of the Guard personally. To Arthur, it seemed that those rumours were true; the guards did not have weak stances or loose grips. Plus, they had the power of numbers on their side. Though Arthur was confident in his skills, he knew that there was no way he could win.

His enemies began to close in, their weapons raised. They moved as one, trying to overwhelm him with their advantage. And Arthur knew that it would work; Alistair was never quite thorough with his training against swarms of opponents. Adrenaline washed over Arthur in waves as he realised the stakes of this fight: it was do or die, either here or at the gallows.

The first guard aimed a jab at Arthur's heart. Arthur dodged out of the way and the blade lodged itself in the wall. The man was left attempting to pull his sword from the stone, but he never got to finish because Arthur killed him with a slice across the neck. He made a gurgling sound as he choked on his own blood, shattering the tense, heavy silence that had settled over alley.

That must have been a wake-up call for the rest of the soldiers, because they began to advance all at once. There were so many that Arthur could not avoid all of their attacks, no matter how many flips and rolls he did. A sword grazed his cheek, and he hissed in pain through gritted teeth. The worst part of it was that he wasn't even being payed for all of his effort.

A guard took a swing at Arthur, who easily parried with his own sword. The man pushed into Arthur's blade with all of his strength, and there was another opponent approaching, so Arthur stepped out of the lock and sent the guard stumbling. He gave him an elbow in the back and the man hit the cobbles with a breathy "oof". Arthur whirled and hit the other guard square in the stomach with his sword, and she collapsed, eyes open wide but unseeing. He payed her no mind.

Arthur tossed the knife in his hand at another woman who was advancing, shouting a battle cry with her axe raised. It hit her forehead and she fell back. He drew another from his belt just in time to block an attack by two guards simultaneously. The _clang_ of their weapons and his colliding rang out through the alley. Arthur jumped out from between them, and hit the one closest with the butt of his sword. The other he threw the knife in his hand at.

All Arthur had to do was fight his way to the end of the alley, and then he was free. He began to attempt to clear a path towards the exit. The docks were right there. If he could just pass this one obstacle and get on a boat (which would not be difficult; Arthur had money and usually, sailors could be persuaded to turn the other cheek if one had money), he would be able to leave. Maybe he could start his own guild somewhere else.

He was almost there, so, so close, only a guard or two away from freedom when he heard the thin, grating sound of someone's voice.

"I would not do that if I were you," they said, and Arthur's eyes widened.

He could see silhouettes on the rooves, all with bows knocked with arrows poised to be fired upon him. Arthur froze, heart pounding in his ears. That was why there were no archers; they were being positioned for an ambush. He couldn't escape. He was trapped. Trapped, trapped, trapped, _trapped-_

"Arthur," they continued, and Arthur stiffened at the sound of it. No one called him by that name. No one, save for his brothers and those at the Guild, referred to him as anything but "the Cluaran Assassin". "That is your name, is it not?"

Arthur managed to nod stiffly.

"Arthur, I am the _awesome_ Gilbert Beilshmidt, Captain of the Guard. And I would like to offer you a deal on behalf of our great Lord Edelstein."

Arthur slowly turned around to face them. The source of the voice turned out to be a man, perhaps a bit older than he was, with milky skin, white hair and red eyes that seemed to glow and made him look like the devil incarnate in the dim light of the alley.

"I have already heard your 'great lord's' deal. And it has no benefit to me. I have already declined once; I will not hesitate to do so again," Arthur drawled, his tone dripping with venom.

Gilbert clicked his tongue disapprovingly.

"Now, now, Arthur," he chided, "don't be so quick to a response. You do not even know yet what I am going to propose."

"You _dare_ speak to me like that? I can kill you in a-"

"Heartbeat? Yes, yes, I've heard that one before. Please do try to be original. I'm bored already," Gilbert had the audacity to _yawn._ In the presence of _the best assassin in Dh'Èirich._ "Anyways, I would only like to kindly request that you stop fighting now. If you do, you will go to prison and have a chance at surviving. If you do not, my archers will kill you."

Arthur forced a scoff. "You think that a few measly archers can kill me, you're wrong."

Gilbert smirked confidently. "Oh, but they can. You know it, I know it. Drop the act, Kirkland."

"I do not intend on surrendering, _Beilschmidt."_

"Then do not think of this as surrender. Think of it as…living to fight another day."

"Do you understand how blooming cowardly it would be of me to do that? To submit? No, I do not think that I will – _gack!"_

Something hit him on the neck, and he crumpled to the ground. There was a splash as he landed in a puddle of something that he'd rather not think about. He hoped it was just water. A man – or woman? - with dark hair in a ponytail was standing over him, but their form was fuzzy, for the corners of Arthur's vision seemed to be soft and bright, and everything that was far away from him was blurry.

Gilbert approached, exchanged a few words with his attacker that Arthur could not catch no matter how hard he strained to hear, and leaned down. His face was brought into near-focus as he came closer. Arthur could see even his white eyelashes.

"And you call yourself the best assassin in Dh'Èirich," Gilbert tutted, his putrid breath washing over Arthur's face.

Arthur wanted to punch him, but he couldn't move his limbs, and he began to panic. His arms and legs and _everything_ felt like lead. He couldn't even wiggle his toes, and he would have thought he was paralyzed, if not for the fact that he could still feel the coldness of the cobblestones beneath him. What had his attacker done to him? Had he been drugged? How had he allowed this to happen?

 _I failed._ _I failed the test._

The alarm he was feeling must have shown in his eyes, because Gilbert snickered.

"Keep your guard up next time, Kirkland," he warned, and then there was a sharp, splitting pain in Arthur's head and everything went black.

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 **Chapter two, finally! I'm so sorry that it took so long! I said I would post update this story often and...I'm posting the second chapter a month later than I should have. I procrastinate a lot, sorry to any readers! I wrote it once, and then it wasn't long enough and there were a bunch of plot holes. To fix that, I practiced writing more descriptively (my style is fairly simplistic when it comes to describing the physical world, such as setting and characters), and I reviewed the plot and made it a lot more complex and in-depth than it was.  
**

 **If Gilbert seems a bit OOC, it's because I was trying to write him in his "fighting" persona (eg. when he almost killed Poland). And I was attempting to write Arthur as an overly self-assured assassin, but it was kind of hard in a situation in which he was the losing party, so sorry if he becomes more confident in later chapters than he was when he was introduced.**

 **Reviews are greatly appreciated, and a huge thank you to anyone who has followed, favourited or reviewed thus far! You motivate me to actually write this fic.**

 **See you in the next update!**


	3. Captured

Arthur awoke, only to see more endless darkness. However, it was colder than the blank kind of his sleep – or unconsciousness? Likely the latter; his head was pounding insistently, a splitting headache rattling through his skull. Arthur was reminded of a bad hangover (and he had his fair share of those in his time), but he hadn't been drinking. It originated from a point on his forehead, so he gingerly raised a hand to touch it (he realised with a rush of relief that he could move again). When he did, he hissed sharply in pain and drew back. He was likely bruised, because Gilbert probably hit him with the pommel of his sword to knock him out.

 _How could I have been so fucking_ stupid? Arthur wondered, realising that he was in a cell; as his eyes began to adjust to the dark, he could make out the gloomy shapes of bars.

His body was aching and his bones were stiff. Arthur was laying on straw, and it was itchy. He was used to a fairly lavish bed, what with the profit that came with his line of work, so the accommodations here only made is muscles hurt more. He supposed that in a jail cell, straw was better than nothing. Actually, he would have expected nothing, but for some reason, he was being treated better than he thought he would have been. It made no sense to Arthur why he was given what he was; he was an assassin who had likely killed more people in Lord Edelstein's court than could fill a graveyard, and yet here he was, laying on straw instead of stone.

The darkness in the cell was deep and unnerving, and Arthur swore it was staring at him – or something within it was. His eyes were stretched wide as he strained to see through it, but it was no use; it seemed to have settled over his body like a permanent layer of dust. It was cold, too; the wet kind of cold that seeped through the walls and permeated your skin until you were left feeling nothing but it. Arthur was sure that it had soaked through the fabric of his clothes long, long ago, and now it felt like he was swimming endlessly in cold water. Arthur was shivering uncontrollably, and he had to clamp his jaw shut to keep his teeth from chattering. He couldn't curl into a ball because of the soreness of his body, but he wished he could. His nose was even running.

Arthur realised that he hadn't eaten in a long, long while, and probably wouldn't for even longer. He was a notorious assassin, and though the jail master might have been kind enough to give him some straw to lay on, Arthur couldn't count on regular meals.

 _Or water,_ Arthur frowned as he began to notice the rough, sandpapery feeling at the back of his throat and the heaviness of his tongue in his dry mouth.

Blood had dried uncomfortably all over him. It itched. His clothes were ripped and caked in mud, and he didn't have any of his weapons anymore, which annoyed him more than anything. He couldn't even reach into his boot to check if he still had his hidden switchblade.

 _No matter,_ Arthur told himself as he began to pick the blood out from under his nails, _I will survive. I will escape, and everything will be fine. I will not die. I am the best ruddy assassin this dreary fiefdom has ever seen!_

Arthur closed his eyes against the never-ending darkness, only to be engulfed by more. It was nicer, though, he supposed; this darkness was homier than the one outside. The silence in the cell was deafening, the sort of buzzing silence that drills into your head. He tried to sleep, for there was nothing better to do in his cell, but his mind was racing. He imagined himself dead in multiple different ways; Arthur decided that he would rather be beheaded than hanged, and that an axe would be swifter than a sword. He wondered if he would be allowed to stay in the cell instead, if only to avoid his impending doom. Discomfort was better than death.

Arthur began to long for the outside, for the feeling of sun on his skin, because the air in his cell was stale and foul-smelling and there was no light save for the dim orange-red of the torches that guards carried as they patrolled past every so often. It was so strange how something which surrounded you for the entirety of your existence could become a memory so quickly.

Eventually, Arthur fell into a restless sleep, and dreamt of Alistair laughing as he was killed by the Captain of the Guard and his ponytailed attacker.

* * *

Arthur awoke, feeling no less tired than when he had fallen asleep. In fact, he felt worse, if that was possible. He had no idea how long he had been out; hours? Days? In the darkness, there was no way to tell.

His hunger and thirst had only worsened, and he felt extremely light-headed now. He could hardly move at all, but it wasn't really like he wanted to.

"Hello?" called a voice from the other side of the cell.

Arthur looked up, wild-eyed and frantic. He ignored how it made his head swim and his vision spot. Had there been someone in here the entire time? No, it was impossible. The notion was ridiculous; he was an assassin, trained to notice the presences of others. Luckily, in the place of another person in his cell that he was afraid of, there was a guard standing on the other side of the bars, and a person standing beside her. Arthur squinted against the brightness of the torch in the guard's hands.

"See, Fran? I told you he was awake," the guard said. Arthur thought that her voice was rather melodic.

"Ah, yes, you were right," the person beside her, who she had called "Fran", chuckled nervously. They had a similar accent to the first speaker, though much thicker. They glanced at Arthur with fear in their eyes. "Um, okay, we can go back now."

The guard laughed. "He can't hurt you. He's in a _cell,_ Francis."

"Francis" had long, light hair and wore jewels that shone as brightly as fire in the torchlight, but his face was hardly visible. Arthur thought that the name didn't really suit him.

"R-right, but…"

"Oh, come on, Franny, don't be a wuss. You were the one who made me bring you here, and I am _not_ going to leave until you talk to him."

"Michelle, I really do not want to…" Francis whined. "He could probably kill me through the bars somehow."

Arthur didn't really know how thick someone could be. This man must have been the pinnacle. Where did he get these ideas? Did he think that Arthur had a poison barb hidden under his tongue or something?

 _Actually,_ Arthur mused, _that isn't such a bad idea._

"Thank you very much," Arthur said smugly, wincing at the rough, dry sound of his voice. "I am truly flattered that you think that I could do such a thing."

Francis and Michelle both jumped, as if they had forgotten that Arthur was even there. Their eyes were wide with horror, though Michelle tried her best to hide it.

"Y-you…" Francis stammered, as if he had lost his voice.

"I talk? What's the matter, _Franny,_ did you think that inmates were just supposed to look at you with dead eyes? Come on, spit it out!" Arthur's words were crisp and biting, mostly because he finally had someone to be mad at for what Gilbert did to him.

Francis ignored Arthur and turned back to Michelle, quaking in his boots.

"Can we go back now?" he squeaked. "This was a terrible idea."

Michelle frowned and glanced between Arthur, who was glaring menacingly at them, and Francis, who was trying his best not to meet Arthur's gaze.

"Scared?" Arthur taunted. Francis gulped.

Arthur wondered if the straw in his tousled hair and the hunger gnawing at his belly made him look more deranged than he actually was. It was likely.

Francis began to speak to Michelle in a language that Arthur didn't know. They yelled at each other, and Arthur could detect tones of frustration and wariness, though he did not understand the words. In a way, it was kind of nice; whatever language it was, it was smooth and lilting.

Finally, they stopped, and Michelle crossed her arms sternly, like a mother scolding a child, though she was clearly younger than Francis. Francis stared at Arthur for a moment before shaking his head vigorously.

"I cannot do it," he whispered, and Michelle raised an eyebrow in irritation.

"Francis would like to tell you-" she began, addressing Arthur, but was cut off.

"Fine, fine!" Francis threw his hands in the air in exasperation, nearly knocking the fancy hat off of his head. "Are you the Cluaran Assassin?"

Arthur huffed and rolled his eyes. "Of course."

"I'm…I'm Francis Bonnefoy. We used to be friends as children?"

Arthur frowned. He vaguely remembered one Francis Bonnefoy from when he was young. Actually, he remembered fighting with one Francis Bonnefoy, and beating his arse to a pulp for a reason that Arthur couldn't recall. Probably because he had been annoying.

"That is not how I remember it."

"Euh, okay. But we knew each other."

"Yes," Arthur answered in a way that asked _where is this going?_

"I overheard Lord Edelstein and Lady Héderváry talking, and… Well, in a few days, Captain Bielschmidt is supposed to give you an audience with Lord Edelstein, who is going to request your services to kill a changeling that has infiltrated his court and is plotting against him and his family. Do _not_ do it. It is an incredibly dangerous mission that will only end in your death," Francis explained madly, words tumbling from his mouth. "Please."

"I will do whatever I bloody well want, thank you," Arthur hissed, annoyed. "I am going to face the death penalty regardless."

"A-Arthur, I cannot stand by and watch you walk straight into a trap. It's suicide," Francis pleaded.

"Do _not_ call me Arthur. We are _not_ friends."

"We used to be!" Francis protested, voice pained.

"But we aren't anymore, and I cannot help but wonder how true your claim is that we once were," Arthur scowled, words laced with steel. "If that is what is going to happen, so be it. Maybe I can escape death for a while."

"You really do not remember…" Francis muttered, shoulders drooping. "Alright. Do not say that I did not warn you."

Michelle looked at Francis with concern in her eyes.

"Thanks for talking with us," she smiled a little at Arthur before departing with Francis in tow.

As soon as they were gone and Arthur was left alone in the boundless dark, he longed for them to return, if only to have someone's voice to counteract the crushing silence in the cell. In the quiet, Arthur replayed his conversation with Michelle and Francis again and again and again. What had he meant, "you really do not remember"? Arthur could not decide what that was about for the life of him. It was bothersome.

The more he thought about it, the more memories of him and Francis as children came back; he remembered playing tag, Francis forcing him to wear a flower crown for some reason, and exploring the forest just outside the northeastern section of Carriedo. So maybe they _had_ been friends? Arthur couldn't remember what ended it, but he remembered Alistair yelling at him about Francis and then beating Francis up. He assumed they parted ways there, for he had no further memories of him until today.

Arthur frowned and picked slowly at the piece of straw he had been twirling between his fingers. It was smooth and dry, and it crinkled when he tried to tear it. There had to be something else. None of the things he could think of were significant enough for Francis to think that they were still friends seven or so years after their last conversation. Arthur pondered the situation for a long time – what could have been hours (it was so difficult to tell in the dark). He was hungry and thirsty and cold and uncomfortable, but he still had the energy to wonder whether he should trust this Francis Bonnefoy.

* * *

A trembling young boy delivered Arthur a meal, which consisted of stale bread, a hunk of cheese, and water. Arthur was not a gourmet, but even he found it a tad unsatisfactory. The boy apologized over and over and over and nearly broke down into tears. Arthur had to forgive him just to get him to shut up. He assured Arthur that it wasn't poisoned when Arthur eyed it warily, and then he left, muttering nervously to himself. Arthur sniffed the meal in front of him, and it didn't carry the scent of any poisons he knew, but there were many that were colourless and odourless. Despite his conscience's protests, he divided the food into three portions and wolfed down one, leaving the other two for later.

He had no idea when the next time he was going to eat would be, and it turned out that it wasn't often or regular. They likely gave him meals at random intervals in order to further throw off his perception of the passage of time, a form of torture in its own right. It worked; Arthur had no idea whether it had been an hour or a day or a month since he had been captured by Gilbert. The darkness muddled with his senses, and he lived in constant discomfort. It felt like years since he had spoken with Francis and Michelle, and in his boredom, be began to count how many guards passed. He missed the sound of his own voice and was nearly going mad from lack of activity.

He was saved when Gilbert, along with attacker and a crowd of guards, piled into the cell block. The torches in their hands hurt Arthur's eyes, which were too used to the dark.

"Get up, Kirkland," Gilbert commanded.

Arthur narrowed his eyes. Had Francis been right? Or was he being taken to be executed?

"Why?"

"Just do it," he hissed and tossed some fresh clothes at Arthur, who was silently grateful for them. His own were in tatters. "Change into those. We will not look."

Gilbert nodded at his companions and they all turned their backs as Arthur removed his soiled clothes and slipped on the new ones; a white tunic, brown trousers, and black leather boots. The fabric was rough, but honestly, anything was better than what he had been wearing.

The guards turned back around. Gilbert spoke quietly to Arthur's attacker (who was much shorter than Arthur had originally thought), and Michelle stepped forward, shooting Arthur a sympathetic glance before removing a ring of keys from her belt and unlocking the cell door. Arthur took only a few steps, and hadn't even made it out of the cell when he was grabbed by his attacker, who had a very tight grip. He half-stumbled and was half-dragged into the awaiting group of guards. The situation took him by surprise and his eyes widened comically. Gilbert laughed a shrill, grating, _cold_ laugh that annoyed Arthur very much.

"Nice going, Yao!" he chuckled, slapping the person holding Arthur, apparently Yao, on the back.

"Thank you?" Yao frowned. His voice carried a strange accent that Arthur had never heard before.

Gilbert huffed, a sharp exhalation from his nose. "Alright. Move out!"

The guards began to file down the long hallway, lined with more cells. Some had people, ragged and drawn, contained within them, and Arthur wondered why he was allowed to leave and they were not. Perhaps they had committed worse crimes than he had, though it seemed unlikely; the ones in the cells had probably been thieves or inconvenient courtiers. Only those who had atrocious criminal acts on their record had the _honour_ of being beheaded or hanged.

The prisoners watched him with hollow, sunken eyes that stared out from the deep shadows in their bony faces, and Arthur had to suppress the chill he got from them. What scared him more than their skeletal appearance was that he had been so adamant that this… _wasting away_ would be better than death.

The torchlight glowed eerily on the prisoners' ashen skin, highlighting how their flesh seemed to be falling off their skulls…

" _Move it,_ Kirkland," Gilbert growled, and Arthur tore his gaze away and began to walk more quickly. If Francis had been right, he was not going to ruin his opportunity by being stubborn.

Arthur was led (or rather, was taken) through a few more cell blocks and then up a dark, steep spiral staircase. His muscles protested with each step, but he made it. As soon as Gilbert opened the heavy wooden door, however, Arthur almost didn't. He hissed and squinted against the harsh white light of the sun. His eyes burned, and Gilbert, Yao, and a few other guards laughed at his predicament. Michelle, one hand on the pommel of her sword, looked sympathetic, almost as if she was contemplating helping him but just could not do it because of her sense of duty. Arthur ignored them, because he could hardly see. Really, the situation was more annoying than anything.

Finally, Yao composed himself, smoothed out nonexistent wrinkles in his tunic, and said haughtily, "Let's not keep Lord Edelstein waiting."

Gilbert wiped tears from the corners of his eyes and nodded. "Indeed, he can be…grating when his orders are not followed to the letter."

 _So, they_ are _taking me to see Lord Edelstein,_ Arthur smirked, but it faltered when he realised- _Francis was right. So, will he be right about the suicide part of it, too? Am I to die for whatever Edelstein is going to make me do? Or will it be killing the changeling, like Francis predicted? Shite._

Arthur was led through a maze of hallways, all ornately decorated. Intricate tapestries hung on the wall, stained glass windows cast multicoloured light onto the floor, paintings by famous artists were displayed in regal frames. Alistair had never quite seen the use in beautiful architecture, so Arthur hadn't really been exposed to it, even though his family had the money to commission such things. He was in awe by the time they reached carved mahogany double doors that towered far above his head.

He was even more in awe when they entered the room, which he had been informed was the throne room (why a lord needed a throne room, Arthur could not comprehend). It had high, vaulted ceilings, which had been painted with a fresco of what was likely family history. Pillars of white marble reached up, and purple banners bearing the gold flower seal of the House of Edelstein lined the walls. Arched windows allowed light to spill into the room and gave a view of the entire city of Carriedo. A long maroon carpet led to a trio of thrones upon a raised section of floor, the largest window in the grand hall behind them. The smallest throne, on the right, was empty. The middle was occupied by a rather pretentious-looking man who Arthur thought of immediately as a complete prick. He was likely Lord Edelstein. A woman was draped over the throne on the left, cleaning underneath her nails with a knife. Arthur smirked and knew that he would like her.

"Hello, Arthur Kirkland. Or would you prefer the Cluaran Assassin?" the woman spoke, her voice, refined and powerful, echoing through the chamber in a way that made chills run down Arthur's spine. "We have a proposition for you."

* * *

 **What? An update on _time?_ What is this sorcery?**

 **Don't count on others being this fast, please. I was just really motivated this week for some reason. We're getting to the good stuff! Though the exposition hasn't ended yet, it's starting to get fun to write (dialogue is way more interesting than internal monologue or descriptions).  
**

 **A lot of planning went into this chapter, but I don't particularly like it. There's too much boring stuff and not enough action. I dunno. Jail scenes are super annoying to write, because they're a lot of the same thing. I'm sorry if it was boring to read, too. I promise next chapter will be better! This was kind of a filler.**

 **I know that there are some names for characters aren't listed in canon or the fandom can't agree on, so characters that appear that have this issue, I'll list the names I'm using in this fic in the author's note (if they appear in the chapter). I also realised that I didn't list the ones from lat chapter, so here we go!  
**

 **Michelle: Seychelles**

 **Alistair: Scotland**

 **Dylan: Wales**

 **Seamus: Northern Ireland**

 **Patrick: Ireland**

 **I think that's everyone, so thanks so much for reading, and I'll see you in the next update!**


	4. The Lady's Proposition

Arthur wanted to groan. He wanted to tear his hair out. He wanted to turn around and leave this bloody throne room once and for all. Maybe this blooming city, too. But he knew he couldn't, because the entire fucking Guard was after him. Plus, Yao was still gripping his wrists and Arthur would rather not fight in his current position.

 _How many sodding propositions do these wankers_ have? he scowled.

"Indeed?" Arthur urged her to go on instead of lashing out or acting upon any of the impulses he had gotten.

"Yes. Currently, we find ourselves with an issue that requires your… _unique_ services to fix," the woman, likely Lady Héderváry, paused and finally met Arthur's gaze. There was determination in her eyes, but she looked down at him in a way that said I'm-better-than-you-and-I-don't-really-want-to-do-this.

Arthur raised a huge eyebrow. "And what's in it for me?"

"We are willing to pardon you of your numerous crimes, Mister Kirkland, and save you from the execution that _Captain Beilschmidt_ wanted for you."

Arthur dared to glance back and glare at Gilbert, who shuffled uncomfortably, because Lady Héderváry was glaring at him, too. Arthur promptly looked away, though, because the almost unnatural whiteness of his skin and hair seemed to glow in the light that filtered in from the huge windows.

"And?" Arthur wanted to know if there was more to this deal, and if there was not, how much he would have to do to get more.

"And nothing, Mister Kirkland," Lord Edelstein spoke for the first time in the conversation. Arthur imagined that his voice would be much fuller and more poised than the high, thin sound that was actually produced.

Arthur laughed coldly. It echoed harshly through the hall, and became almost haunting as it surrounded those there. Yao's grip tightened. "And _something,_ My Lord. I do not work for free."

"You are getting your freedom. Is that not enough?" Lady Héderváry asked. Several guards, including Michelle and Gilbert, nodded. They knew that Arthur was in no position to be bargaining.

"No, My Lady, it is not," Arthur said, devoid of any emotion except mild irritation. The mammoth door behind them creaked, and he looked back for a moment, only to see someone who he assumed was Francis and two women that Arthur didn't know peering through the crack. He looked away in annoyance, refusing to acknowledge them any further. "I am payed to eliminatethreats to my clients, and this is no exception."

Lady Héderváry scowled, her eyes narrowing into slits as she glared intensely at Arthur. She had moved to sitting in a position on her throne that would allow her to get up more quickly, and she had a hand on the pommel of her sword. From here, Arthur could see jewels glitter beneath her fingers in the late afternoon sun. Lord Edelstein seemed to know what she was about to do and placed a hand over top of hers. In the shifting light, Arthur could see that he looked pale, far paler than anyone should; that beneath his eyes, there were dark, heavy smudges like he hadn't been sleeping; that his skin was ashen. Arthur held his head up higher.

"Mister Kirkland," Lady Héderváry began, ire flashing like lightning in her green eyes, "I do not think you understand the situation that you find yourself in."

"I think I do, My Lady."

"No, you do not. Our Guard has captured you and brought you to justice. Within the fortnight, you were to have a public beheading for murder, treason, arson, the list goes on and on," she paused and leaned meaningfully forward in her throne. "And yet, we are willing to pardon you in exchange for one more act, and you have the audacity to ask for _more?"_

Arthur scoffed. He could see how nervously Lord Edelstein glanced between them, how he looked at his wife with pleading in his eyes; Arthur was in a position of power here. Of course, he didn't quite look the part; his face was grimy, his clothes were simple and he was bruised and beaten, in contrast to how Lord Edelstein and Lady Héderváry were dressed lavishly in the latest fashions, their hair styled and their skin free of any blemishes. It didn't matter. He came off as cold and entitled, whereas the Lord and Lady across from him, surrounded by luxury, came off as jittery and unfocussed.

"Yes, I do. Though you have something else to offer me, my entire price will not be payed by it. As well, I do not know yet who I am killing, so it may cost you more," Arthur pointed out, smirking.

Lady Héderváry's eyes widened in indignation, but Gilbert was the one who answered. His voice was steely with anger.

"Do you have a death wish, Kirkland? Because if so, I would very much like to deliver it," he growled. Lady Héderváry silenced him with a wave of her hand.

"We are hiring you," she sneered, and Arthur felt his face fall in apprehension, "to kill a changeling."

Arthur blinked, once, twice. "Excuse me, _what?"_

"A changeling, Mister Kirkland. Do you not know what a changeling is?"

Arthur huffed at the insult. _Of course_ he knew what a bleeding changeling was. Alistair always warned him about them, Dylan read him stories about them when they were little, Seamus and Patrick always pretended to be changelings just to scare him. That wasn't the problem. No, the problem was that Francis told him that this was going to happen, and that was unnerving. Well, he _had_ said that he listened in on Lady Héderváry and Lord Edelstein talking about it, and he from what Arthur had seen, he was likely part of the court, so it wasn't entirely unbelievable, it was just that…Francis said that it was suicide. Arthur glanced back to where Francis and the two women had been peeking in, and saw no one there. They must have left or guards removed them.

"I do, in fact, know what a changeling is," Arthur responded crisply, and Lady Héderváry raised an eyebrow. "I also know that because you are asking me to kill a changeling, so my price has just raised considerably."

"I have already told you, we are not going to give you more than your freedom and a full pardon for your crimes. Many of us feel as though that is too much already, for a criminal such as yourself," Lady Héderváry insisted.

Arthur had a disinterested look on his face. He didn't even bother to meet Lady Héderváry's gaze. "I only do these things for coin, and you are no different. I am willing to consider your offer if you are willing to pay a pretty penny for my services."

Lady Héderváry was taken aback, and her eyes narrowed in suspicion. Commoners never spoke to her in this way – especially with the ruler of the fiefdom in the room - let alone bargained with her.

"And if I refuse?"

Yao's grip tightened even more, to the point that Arthur could feel pins and needles in his hands from the lack of blood flow. He knew immediately that he was going to have a bruise.

"Then you are not going to have me to stop your big bad changeling," Arthur said matter-of-factly. "My price, My Lady, is not unreasonable, I assure you. Changelings are faeries, and legend has it that faeries are nearly impossible to kill. Not to mention that if you do not yet know who the changeling is, it will take me some time to find it. If I am to assassinate a faerie, ma'am, I will require chambers, preferably in the castle; control of the Guard in order to more easily conduct my investigation; access to castle and family records; I must be payed in gold; and I must be allowed to do what I wish with my time, provided I fulfill your requirements."

Lady Héderváry looked at him with contempt. She was on the verge of sending him back to the cells and executing him on her own, Arthur could see it. He could also feel Gilbert glaring at him; his gaze burned into the back of Arthur's head. Lord Edelstein, who had been wringing his hands the whole time and looking thoroughly desperate, noticed Lady Héderváry's behavior, squeezed her hand and addressed Arthur.

"How much is this going to cost me?" he inquired hastily, before this deal slipped through his fingers. He was not about to put his life and the lives of his family in danger.

Arthur considered it for a moment. "Two hundred gold pieces. One hundred in increments across the time that it takes me to find the changeling – probably a month or two, by the way – and one hundred after I've killed it."

Lord Edelstein's jaw dropped. _"Two hundred?_ That is an impossible amount!"

"Says the man wearing purple silk," Arthur scoffed. "Two hundred is a perfectly reasonable amount. Take it or leave it."

Lord Edelstein let out an indignant squeak. "Mister Kirkland, what are you implying?"

The assassin ignored the lord.

"Take it or leave it," he repeated, boredom evident in his tone. It was feigned; Arthur wanted to do this, badly.

Lord Edelstein thought for a moment. "Very well."

Lady Héderváry seethed beside him.

"Do not make me regret this," he warned, though there was not very much fire behind it. His voice echoed through the hall, making it sound too thin and too tight.

The assassin swept into a deep, mocking bow without looking away from the lord and lady.

"I think that you have made the right choice, Lord Edelstein, Lady Héderváry," Arthur smiled, looking elegant and poised despite his rather unfortunate circumstances. "The changeling doesn't stand a chance."

Lady Héderváry frowned at him, doubt and fear and anger sparkling in her eyes. She now had two trained hunters under her roof instead of one.

"Captain Beilschmidt will show you to your chambers. Please to bathe; you look awful. Fresh clothes will be brought up, dinner will be in the Great Hall, and you may begin your investigation tomorrow," Lady Héderváry waved her hand dismissively, falling into the part that had been given to her. Arthur heard an irritated grunt from behind him – Gilbert.

Arthur bowed once more as he prepared to leave.

The assassin's smirk was predatorial when he answered, "Of course, My Lady, My Lord."

* * *

Gilbert did indeed lead Arthur to his room, but not without complaint. Michelle went with them as security (she had, apparently, beat Gilbert in a training duel using her superior ingenuity and dexterity, and mentioned it proudly multiple times. Each one, Gilbert grumbled angrily about the fight being rigged, but Arthur assumed that it was only because his pride had been wounded; he mumbled about no one else being able to beat him save for Lady Héderváry before Michelle did), and she and Arthur had a fairly pleasant conversation. Gilbert frequently intruded with a snide remark or an insult or something extremely self-righteous. It grated on Arthur's nerves, which were already terribly frayed with hunger and thirst. Lucky for him, he only needed to draw a bath and change, and then he could attend dinner. He presumed that Lord Edelstein's court would be attending, and Michelle confirmed it; part of him was glad, for he needed to speak to Francis, but part of him was only further irritated. Francis was irritating.

They arrived at the door to his chambers, located in a fairly out-of-the-way corridor in the west wing of the building. It had probably been for guests when they visited before, but because Lord Edelstein and Lady Héderváry were likely at least a little frightened of him, it served to keep him isolated. Gilbert looked at Arthur suspiciously and handed him the key.

"We're going to be outside the door, so don't try anything funny, Eyebrows," Gilbert hissed. Arthur huffed in annoyance.

"Why would I? I _am_ being payed, Beilschmidt, and it is not as though I would try to escape when so much is riding on the delivery of my side of the deal."

Michelle rolled her eyes. "He's right, you know, Captain. I have better things that I could be doing right now."

Gilbert scowled at them both. "Just go in."

The corner of Arthur's mouth twitched downwards as he unlocked the heavy wooden door. The brass handle would be quite the nuisance. He crossed the threshold, ignoring the rather lavish decorations in the sitting room; he was exhausted and he felt like his legs couldn't support his weight. He trudged to a room adjacent to a bedroom with a bed that looked rather inviting after sleeping on straw for a while. It turned out to be a bathroom, and a bath had already been drawn, much to his delight. Clothes were folded beside the tub.

Arthur allowed himself a small smile and removed his clothes with a look of slight disgust, tossing them onto the floor. He would pick them up later. Right now, all he could think about was how _clean_ he would feel after a bath. Arthur lowed himself into the tub and let out a contented sigh as he was surrounded by warm water.

Soon enough, after some scrubbing, the water was dyed a _lovely_ grey-brown. He really _had_ been dirty. Arthur stepped out and dried himself with a towel that had been sitting folded in a shelf. He put on the clothes that had been provided; they were fairly posh, if he did say so himself, but a tad too flouncy for his taste. He wore them anyway. He could buy some other stuff later.

Arthur emerged from the bathroom, and feeling refreshed, allowed himself to look around. He folded the clothes he had been wearing before and placed them on top of the chest of drawers in the bedroom, and despite the terrible fatigue he felt, he forced himself to search his chambers for hidden passages, to memorize the exits and such. He needed to know the terrain in case of an attack.

Arthur dragged his feet around the room, mentally marking windows and doors and lifting up paintings and tapestries. He tapped any stones that seemed loose or out of place, and made sure that he had the layout committed to memory. His chambers were rather nice - smaller than what he was used to – but nice. The furniture was brighter than what he had in the manor he lived in with his brothers, and the bed was slightly smaller and had a canopy, but it was a change that meant that he wouldn't be reminded of Alistair and his schemes. Arthur's stomach grumbled, and he clutched it involuntarily. There was still so much he had to do in order to settle in, but he was exhausted and hungry. A nap seemed rather inviting…

But no. There were still so many things he didn't know about his employers and his task – like _why_ there was a ruddy changeling in Lord Edelstein's court. Honestly, what could be the reason for that? This was just a fairly small trading fiefdom. It seemed as though it shouldn't be worth the Faerie Queen's time. Plus, he was still fairly skeptical about the existence of the faeries (he had always believed as a child, and was convinced that he saw one once, but he grew up. He realised that it was impossible that he saw a changeling, because he would have been taken away). And why did Lady Héderváry seem to take charge of decisions when technically, it wasn't her court? It seemed like Lord Edelstein was just a puppet all through that conversation. He needed answers, and he knew exactly who could provide them: Gilbert and Michelle.

Arthur crept towards the door and placed his ear on it to listen in on their conversation.

"…is not smart," that was Gilbert's voice.

"I'm sure it'll be fine," Michelle.

"Maybe, it's just…Specs can be so rash sometimes. Eliza wasn't going to let him in with his _price,_ and Roddy should've realised that it was for a reason. But _no,_ he had to go and let him in," Gilbert huffed.

"Well, don't tell anyone I said this, but I think you're right. He's only trying to avoid some myth. There probably isn't even a changeling here."

"You're right. That story is so old. There's no way it's actually true," Arthur imagined Gilbert rolling his eyes.

 _What story?_ Arthur wondered, irritated.

"I doubt it is. I could be wrong, but since then, no one has seen a faerie. I don't think that the curse is real," Michelle said importantly.

"I don't think the story about Carriedo's name is true, either. That House disappeared, but I don't think it was because of faeries. It was probably disease or something."

 _Wait… Carriedo?_ Arthur vaguely remembered a history lesson about how Carriedo got its name; something about faeries taking them all away. Maybe it was part of the same legend as the curse? He suddenly wished he payed more attention to his tutor.

Michelle sighed. "I agree; I don't know about faeries at all. The Church seems convinced that all of this is a rouse, and I'm inclined to believe them."

Arthur rolled his eyes. Sometimes the people of this fiefdom followed others too blindly. They simply latched onto others' ideas and agreed with them without any evidence to support the claims made. It certainly didn't help that the sphere of influence that the Church had was huge over the people of the fiefdom, particularly over the serfs. Arthur was reminded of how Alistair dragged them to church on important holidays, and how boring he found the services. He was the odd one out, because the rest of his brothers appeared at least mildly interested, and Patrick and Seamus were devout. They kept bibles in their bedside tables. Arthur couldn't understand it.

"Yeah, they probably don't exist. Specs is just paranoid. The curse the Faerie Queen put on his House isn't recorded in any official documents, and that Erik was probably just insane."

Arthur drew away from the door; his legs had begun to tremble. He figured that he could visit the library later and find out about the Legend of Carriedo or the curse on the House of Edelstein. Arthur wandered into the sitting room and plunked down on a yellow chaise lounge, patterned with orange flowers (not his favourite, but it didn't matter). His legs ached, and it felt as though he was sinking into the cushions. Arthur was still hungry and thirsty, but his eyelids dragged down, and no matter how hard he tried to stay awake, he couldn't. His last thought before he fell asleep was how he was going to miss dinner.

* * *

 **Hey! I guess updates will be fairly weekly now!  
**

 **In case there is any confusion, this is set in a twisted version of the Middle Ages that has more Renaissance-esque art, architecture, fasion, et cetera, but with a fairly Medieval society and values.**

 **Huge thank-you to the amazing, the incredible, the talented, _weirdonamedbrie_ on Instagram for the cover art! It's absolutely drop-dead gorgeous anD I LOVE IT SO MUCH! :DD**

 **Alistair: Scotland**

 **Patrick: Ireland**

 **Seamus: Northern Ireland**

 **Michelle: Seychelles**

 **The next chapter is when the action finally picks up. I'm looking forward to writing it! I hope you enjoyed! Have a nice day/night, hasta luego!**


	5. Welcome to the Castle

"…and? _Kirkland?_ Goddammit, Kirkland, _get out here!"_ Gilbert. There was banging at the main door across the room.

Arthur pried his eyelids open, for they felt almost glued together, and yawned. He hadn't dreamt of anything, and he hardly felt less tired than he had when he lied down. The golden light of the setting sun fluttered through the window ( _like some sort of bird,_ his mind supplied). He swung his legs over the side of the chez lounge but didn't stand; he was still very tired, and part of him wished that attending this event was not expected of him. However, he supposed that it _would_ be a rather convenient time to gather information about Lord Edelstein's court. There was more loud banging at the door and Gilbert screeching at him. Arthur heard a slap and an indignant "ow!" and then Michelle called to him.

"Arthur, come on! We'd like to eat something, if you don't mind!" it wasn't angry, just insistent. Arthur liked Michelle for that; it seemed rather difficult to rile her up.

"Right, right. Bloody hell, I'm coming, okay?" Arthur grumbled, his voice rather hoarse.

"You better fucking be!" Arthur could almost _hear_ the scowl in Gilbert's voice.

There was another slap, quieter this time, and Arthur could imagine Gilbert giving Michelle the wide-eyed "I'm not wounded but my pride is" look. Gathering his courage, Arthur rose with a grunt, and immediately shivered at the feeling of cold stone under his bare feet. That was the worst part of waking up, especially because the warmth of sleep had begun to wear off and Arthur was growing hungrier by the second. Plus, his whole body ached like he had been sleeping on stone; his joints felt creaky (which he didn't acknowledge, because he's _only eighteen, for God's sake)._ Arthur dragged his feet to the door and opened it a crack, wincing at how it groaned on its hinges. The doors at the Kirkland Manor never creaked; Alistair wouldn't allow it. Arthur made a mental note to oil it.

"Is what I have on appropriate for a formal dinner?" he inquired, gaze flitting between Michelle and Gilbert. It didn't seem like it should be. "Am I obliged to dress up?"

Gilbert didn't care to look and only rolled his eyes. "Yes, 's fine, whatever. Can we _go_ now?"

Michelle crossed her arms over her chest and looked him up and down. "Do you have anything fancier in there?"

Arthur glanced back into the room and allowed himself to sweep it briefly. He hadn't seen anything, and he was trained to memorize these sorts of things, so when he looked back at Michelle, he shook his head. "I don't think so."

"Okay," she said, dragging out the 'a'. "Maybe Lord Edelstein or Lady Héderváry will provide you with something before you enter the dining hall. They might send a manservant. Or perhaps they will send Fra- er, Sir Bonnefoy to assist you."

Arthur nodded and closed the door once more, pulling on the black leather boots he had been given. He heard Gilbert groan loudly from the other side, so he sniggered a little and completed his task a little more slowly than he would otherwise, just to annoy him. When he emerged, Arthur did so with an air of elegance and poise, and they all made their way through the halls.

Arthur lamented the loss of Cluaran on the way; that was a brilliant sword, and he was fairly certain that he wouldn't be able to find another that was nearly as well-balanced or precise. He asked Gilbert if he could have it back, and he said no, so Arthur would have to search for a new blade. Perhaps he would visit that merchant with spiky hair he saw during his escapade with the Guard a while ago – if he hadn't packed up and left already. Arthur really had no idea how long he had been in that cell, and rather thought that if he did not mention it, everyone would assume that he knew and he would somehow be further along.

There was hardly any speaking on the trip, as Arthur was concentrating on memorizing the layout of the castle, Gilbert was grumbling to himself about how infuriating it was that Arthur took so long to get up, and Michelle was caught in the unsociable atmosphere between them.

Arthur had to know the terrain, though he still was in awe of the architecture and opulence of the building and couldn't quite focus. Maybe that was also because he was so hungry that felt like he was empty and it was almost painful to walk. Even if Michelle or Gilbert were to attempt to strike up conversation, Arthur would have ignored them – talking to others was hard on him even without these extra setbacks. Perhaps that was another side effect of living with the same people his whole life and having every other member of society afraid of him, he mused.

When they reached the Great Hall, Arthur was whisked away by a man whose name he didn't bother to remember and put into clothes that were more appropriate for dinner with the court. He hardly cared what he was wearing, but the man obviously did, as he fussed over which colours went better with Arthur's eyes or some such nonsense. He ended up in a yellow jerkin that was too big for him, knee-high stockings and the ugliest upper hose he had ever seen, but at this point, he couldn't bring himself to care. He just wanted to eat.

Arthur was brought out into the Great Hall, and it turned out that he hadn't been last, at the very least – there were still a few open seats. And thankfully (or perhaps not so, depending on one's perspective), Lord Edelstein, Lady Héderváry and their son hadn't arrived, so dinner wouldn't start for a while. Arthur groaned loudly at his realisation of this fact, not particularly caring if anyone thought it rude. There were a few peeved glances shot his way, but Arthur didn't care. He was terribly hungry.

 _I won't be able to eat a lot anyway,_ Arthur realised, irritated. _I'll vomit if I do. Fucking hell. This is the worst._

"Announcing Mister Arthur Kirkland," a page boomed, her voice authoritative. It's undeniable, however, that since Arthur had no official titles, her words lacked something.

People glanced his way, but very few recognised him. One that did leaned over and whispered in his neighbor's ear, but there was hardly the stir Arthur was used to his presence creating. Then again, it might be that they knew him as "the Cluaran Assassin" and not by his name. The Kirkland family did, after all, veil their activities with pseudonyms and titles and transactions through third parties. Arthur's real name was perhaps not very well-known, particularly within the ruling class. They even attended functions as one of the wealthier non-noble families under a fake name.

A servant approached from where she had been standing against the wall and led Arthur to an empty chair to the right of a man with light, untamed hair. The woman to his left had a similar face shape and eye colour but had chocolate-coloured hair in a loose braid. The seat on the other side of Arthur was vacant, and he wondered who he would be forced to make conversation with. He hoped it wouldn't be Francis; he had found that he was currently absent. He didn't want to have to deal with such a prick at the moment.

Instead of dwelling on that rather annoying subject, he looked around the table. Few seemed particularly interesting, but he took it upon himself to commit all of their faces to memory. The only ones that stood out to him, however, were a full-figured woman with wavy golden hair; a small man with raven black hair and equally dark eyes; and an unapproachable-looking man with choppy blond hair.

 _One of the persons at this table is a faerie. One of them is going to kill the rest.  
_  
The man from before who was sitting beside him smiled brightly and extended a hand for Arthur to shake, interrupting his thoughts. The woman reached over and did the same with a decidedly neutral expression once the man withdrew.

"Cecílie of the House of Héderváry, and this is my brother, Ctirad. We are personal advisors to My Lady," the woman – Cecílie – told Arthur, her tone perhaps a bit haughty. She had an accent of some description, similar to the one Lady Héderváry did, but more pronounced. "And you are, I presume, one Mister Arthur Kirkland?"

"Yes, I am," Arthur replied, equally haughty.

"You are also the Cluaran Assassin, are you not?" Cecílie inquired. Apparently, she didn't dance around topics that, perhaps, required a bit more delicacy. Beside her, Ctirad's face fell and he had a warning look in his eyes.

"And what if I am?"

"If you are, then I must warn you that my brother and I watch everything that goes on in this castle to ensure the security of My Lady's status and her life. I would advise against trying anything…suspicious," Celcílie said coolly, and Arthur frowned. It wasn't as if he was going to go around killing prominent members of the court!

"I can assure you, that will not happen. I would not dare…end one of my employers or jeopardise her position."

"I'm glad. I wouldn't want your crimes to be reattributed to you," she took a disinterested sip of wine from her goblet. "After all, that would end in your demise, would it not? I think that would be most unfortunate."

"Indeed it would," Arthur narrowed his eyes. "But I don't believe I would ever act _that_ irrationally."

He had morals. However, it was likely more useful to have the court afraid of him than be chummy with him – he wasn't here to make friends. Additionally, emotional attachment to anyone in this room could ruin his investigation, for it might lead him to overlook the facts. In the end, it was easier to isolate himself and gather information as a figure no one really knows but everyone fears.

Ctirad offered a close-lipped smile that looked more like a grimace. "Of course not. My sister just… wanted to remind you of where you stand here. We do not take well to newcomers, let alone those who are here… under unknown circumstances."

"I understand completely," Arthur responded crisply. "However, I'm sure that my _circumstances_ will be explained to you lot soon. I'm not your enemy, I promise."

"I never said you were," Ctirad chuckled tightly. Celcílie rolled her eyes.

"No, _you_ didn't," Arthur agreed. "But your sister implied it."

Ctirad shot a quick warning look at Celcílie, but she shook her head and disregarded him.

"I'll be gracious enough to ignore that comment," Celcílie told Arthur. "I am only warning you not to overstep your boundaries. It is important that you heed my words."

"I can assure you that I will, my lady. You needn't worry," Arthur forced a terse smile. Celcílie's suspicion did not fade from her eyes, but she seemed satisfied with his answer.

Ctirad frowned and began to speak to Celcílie in a language that Arthur didn't know. He shrugged, almost grateful for the reprieve from that conversation (which felt perhaps more like an interrogation) and began to look absently around the room once more, gaze flitting from face to face in order to memorise them.

The hall was beautiful. The golden light of the setting sun from the windows along the wall behind him coupled with the orange of the roaring fire in the hearth at the other end and the candelabras that were placed around the room and along the middle of the table made for a wonderfully warm feeling. The ceiling here was wood panelled, contrasting the cultured elegance of the throne room, with its marble pillars and frescoes on the ceiling. This felt homier, more tangible. Arthur preferred it. The other room had been too flouncy and pretentious for his taste.

The great doors swung open with a creak and everyone's heads turned to see who had entered. It turned out to be Francis, to Arthur's eternal annoyance. He waltzed in like he owned the place. Arthur couldn't say he didn't deserve the reaction he was getting – he was dressed in a chartreuse jerkin with intricate swirls of royal blue that made him look fantastic, Arthur was sure everyone agreed – but he came off as so entitled. Beside him was a shorter man with auburn hair. He had a kind of passive, unassuming smile on his face, and he looked out from under heavy-lidded eyes, as if he were tired, but the expression seemed to permanently adorn his face.

"We have arrived, everyone, no need to fret!" Francis announced, a haughty smirk on his face.

The page from before stepped forward, keeping her voice decidedly neutral despite Francis' interruption and said, "Announcing Sir Francis Louis Jean-Marie Dorian of the House of Bonnefoy and Master Feliciano Leonardo Eustorgio Vargas of the House of Edelstein."

 _Oh, dear Lord, I hope I don't have to sit next to Francis…_

Francis sashayed over to the empty seat next to Arthur, who groaned again and pinched the bridge of his nose.

 _Shite._

Francis, though, hardly even acknowledged him. There was a regretful, pitying, almost fearful look sent in Arthur's direction, and then he began to talk to Gilbert, who sat across the table beside the son of Lord Edelstein and Lady Héderváry.

 _I don't need his sodding sympathy. It was my choice to take this bleeding job, not his,_ Arthur thought, indignant.

"So, how is it going with Madeline?" Francis smiled, ignoring the look of annoyance Arthur was sending his way. This was worse than having to converse with him.

Gilbert shrugged. "Not terrible, not fantastic. Okay, I guess."

"Ah! We will have to remedy that!" Francis tacked something on in another language at the end, which only served to further aggravate Arthur.

Arthur forced himself to make the conversation into background noise, and he went back to familiarizing himself with the room and its occupants. Three more people walked in; a rather angry-looking woman with dark hair and rouge on her lips; a taller man who shared her face but had much lighter hair; and a bespectacled young woman with long blond hair, who apologised for her tardiness and mentioned that there was business she had to attend to.

"Announcing Vassal Lovina Romana Bice Vargas of the House of Edelstein, Master Romeo Sebastiano Nazzareno Vargas of the House of Edelstein, and Miss Madeline Victoria Williams-Jones."

The first two went to sit with the small man who entered with Francis – Feliciano, Arthur recalled – and the second headed towards the boisterous woman Arthur had seen before. The bespectacled woman must have been the "Madeline" Francis and Gilbert were talking about. Perhaps Gilbert was courting her (or attempting to, as Arthur seriously doubted any sane woman would accept the advances of such a man as _Gilbert)._ He could tease Gilbert about it later! Marvelous!

"Those are some _gorgeous_ upper hose, my dear Arthur," Francis smirked, tone challenging.

 _Is it possible for him to shut up?_ Arthur wondered dryly.

"Why, thank you! I thought no one would ever notice," Arthur responded, voice practically oozing sarcasm. Why Francis thought that he'd care that he doesn't like his upper hose – which he didn't even _choose_ – is beyond him.

Francis rolled his eyes. "I was just complimenting you, no need to get so defensive."

"You were not complimenting me and we both know it."

 _"I_ obviously do not."

Arthur scowled at him, turned away, and rested his cheek on his hand. Why couldn't the Edelstein family hurry up? They couldn't start without them, and Arthur was _starving._ At some point, an ale was placed in front of him, and he sipped it absently as he continued to look around. Unfortunately, Arthur's gaze eventually ended up on Francis' face; he hadn't really been able to it in the cell or when he peeked into his meeting with the Lord and Lady, and Arthur found himself rather entranced by his features; they were almost transcendental. They were all rather feminine, a lot of soft curves and delicate lines – if Arthur hadn't known better, and if not for the light stubble on Francis' angular jaw, he probably would have said that he was a woman. Francis had a fairly pointed nose, long lashes above eyes the colour of the sky on a cloudless day. He had tanned skin a shade or two darker than wavy light blond hair that framed his face very nicely, there was not a blemish anywhere that Arthur could see save for a beauty spot above his lip… and too late, Arthur realised he was staring.

"Arthur? What are you looking at?" Francis asked him with feigned innocence, a shapely eyebrow quirked.

Arthur could feel his cheeks heating up from embarrassment at being caught, but he forced it away and opened his mouth to answer. He was saved, however, by the sound of trumpets and the grand entrance of Lady Héderváry, Lord Edelstein, and their son, whose name Arthur hadn't bothered to pay attention to in his lessons.

"Announcing Lord Roderich of the House of Edelstein and Lady Elizabeta of the House of Edelstein and the House of Héderváry, as well as their son, Master Roland of the House of Edelstein."

Right. _That_ was their son's name. _Roland._ The name that practically _screamed_ snooty. How could he have forgotten?

The three of them were dressed in outfits of purple and white, and Roland even had a purple beret sitting atop his white blond hair. Something of an anomaly, Arthur would say, when both Lady Héderváry and Lord Edelstein had varying shades of brown hair. Lady Héderváry had a vicious-looking sword at her hip, some sort of bird perched atop it in a position that appeared as though it was taunting onlookers. Arthur was only further reminded of the empty space that the lack of Cluaran left.

Everyone around the long table rose in the presence of the rulers of the fiefdom, and there came the synchronised sound of chairs scraping against the stone floor and the swish of rich fabric as people stood. Arthur followed reluctantly, but he was the last on his feet, so everyone else shot him looks ranging from warning to frustrated to nervous. No one dared meet the gazes of anyone in the noble family until they were permitted to sit down once more, so people stared ahead with blank eyes. Arthur waited impatiently, feeling like this whole thing was a pointless formality.

"Hail the House of Edelstein. May its reign be long and true," the court said simultaneously. Arthur didn't join in, just mouthing along. They still were his long-time enemy, after all, even if he was working for them now.

"You may be seated," Lord Edelstein announced, but his thin, pompous voice made Arthur roll his eyes, for he did not fit the part he was playing.

Again, there was a chorus of scraping and clicking as the court followed Lord Edelstein's order. Arthur could smell fresh bread and soup wafting from somewhere, and his stomach grumbled involuntarily. Francis looked him up and down judgementally. Arthur fought the urge to roll his eyes. He hadn't eaten for…he didn't know how long, what did the tosser expect?

"Thank you all for coming today," Lord Edelstein began, and all eyes were on him in an instant. Arthur scoffed. It wasn't as if anyone here actually had a _choice_ in the matter. The Lord's voice became lower, a tad nervous, at the next part. "Before we begin, I would like to formally welcome Arthur Kirkland into our castle. You may know him better as the Cluaran Assassin."

Hushed gasps flitted across the table like a carrier pigeon. Arthur couldn't help but feel just a little proud that people knew of his exploits, even among the nobility. However, people just regarded him with an icy suspicion, and the man who had walked in with Francis – Feliciano – looked positively terrified of him. He leaned in and whispered in the ear of the angry-looking woman – Lovina – beside him, and then to the man who had entered with her – Romeo. Lovina rolled her eyes, but Romeo patted him on the back by way of comfort. They all had similar faces. Siblings?

Lady Héderváry took over from Lord Edelstein once the commotion died down.

"We hired him to conduct an investigation for the next few months. Everyone here is obliged to give him the information he needs. There will be consequences for those who withhold any." Her voice was much more regal and smooth than Lord Edelstein's, though there was a note of veiled irritation. Arthur thought that she fit much better into his role than he did.

After a pause, she continued. "Some of you may be wondering what he is investigating, for our fiefdom is prosperous and free – may the House of Edelstein forever reign" – around the table, everyone chorused this – "and I can assure you, it is for the greater good for this castle, and indeed, this fiefdom."

Francis glanced at Arthur with practiced skepticism blatant on his face, but there was a sort of guarded look in his eyes that left Arthur to wonder about the sincerity of his expression.

"We have decided to regard the Legend of Carriedo as an immediate threat to the House of Edelstein and its people, and as such, have taken measures to protect them. The employment of Mister Kirkland is one of these measures, in addition to a greater presence of the Guard in the castle."

There were a few groans from the people around the table, a few nods of agreement, and even a whimper or two. Arthur guessed that the latter came from Feliciano.

"That is all. We will inform you if there are any additional changes. Please enjoy this meal, courtesy of Chef Adnan."

Lady Héderváry nodded to a servant on the side of the room opposite the hearth, and she scurried off.

Francis smiled wistfully, leaning back in his chair. "Ah, he always makes the best food. It's almost comparable to mine."

"Are you always so arrogant?" Arthur snapped, feeling rather annoyed for no apparent reason. Perhaps it was because he was working for his lifelong enemies, surrounded by self-serving nobles, without having eaten for who-knows-how-long.

Francis' eyes narrowed at him, and Arthur could feel Gilbert glaring at him from across the table. Celcílie even spared him a peeved glance.

"I do not think, my dear assassin, that you are any less so," Francis replied coolly.

"Perhaps not, but that was not the question. I asked whether _you_ are always this arrogant."

Francis only shrugged, which aggravated Arthur further. People didn't just _dismiss_ him. He was the blooming Cluaran Assassin, for God's sake. He was sure he had never been spoken to like that by someone who wasn't his brother since…he couldn't remember. The notion itself was almost alien to him. Francis might have otherworldly features, but he's absolutely infuriating. When Arthur didn't answer, Gilbert scoffed and looked away, beginning to tap his finger on the table in some sort of repetitive beat.

Francis ignored both Arthur and Gilbert, and all three of them refused to fall back into conversation with anyone. Everyone else was conversing merrily to one another; someone came to refill their goblets with wine; Lady Héderváry, Lord Edelstein and _Roland_ had been served their soup, among others. Francis was swirling his goblet and eventually picked up conversation with the sour-looking man with choppy blond hair and a white beret Arthur had seen earlier and a girl sitting beside him with wide green eyes and braids tied with a purple ribbon. Celcílie frowned at Arthur and whispered something to Ctirad, eyes never leaving Arthur's face. Arthur pretended he didn't notice.

Arthur watched as dusk faded to evening, and the stars blinked to life in the sky like lanterns in a forest. Imposing clouds blotted out parts of the sky. The roaring fire across the room from him and the candelabras painted the hall in an orange-yellow that failed to reach the corners. The scene almost dream-like, parts almost intangible, with echoing laughter and voices that seemed to fade in and out of existence. Exhaustion began to set in again as the events of the day did. He was working for the House of Edelstein, whose Guard he had been running since he was born. He was free of his brothers, pardoned of his crimes. _He had to kill a faerie_. And he didn't even know who it bloody was.

 _What have I gotten myself in to?_

A bowl of soup was placed before him, and it smelled absolutely _divine._ He wondered how long it had really been since he had last eaten a proper meal…

Arthur devoured it. He gulped the soup down so fast he barely tasted it and was left with a scalded tongue. He had some dribbling down his chin, which he wiped away with the back of his hand. And then he remembered that he wouldn't be able to eat anything else after that lest he be sick, and he groaned loudly in annoyance at himself. Francis looked over, an amused smile on his face.

"You know, Mister Kirkland, we are not, in fact, pigs in a sty," he taunted. "Did you grow up a street urchin? Perhaps that is why you have no table manners."

Arthur glowered at him and responded in a poor impression of Francis' accent, "I _do,_ in fact, know that, Mister Bonnefoy," he dropped the voice he was putting on. Francis covered a snicker at the atrocity of it with his hand as Arthur continued, "And I didn't grow up a _street urchin._ My family is one of the richest in this sodding fiefdom. It just so happens that I haven't _eaten_ since I was imprisoned. Remember that, Mister Bonnefoy? Remember how you came down to my cell and told me not to take the job? Well, look at me now, I–"

Francis suddenly clapped his hand over Arthur's mouth, eyes wide. "You can't just _say_ that!" he hissed in a low voice. "I was not supposed to be down there! Michelle allowed an exception to the rule for me, but I do not think that if it got out that I snuck into the prison block to speak with a _mass murderer_ I would be spared any punishment! There are people in this court who look religiously for misconduct among their peers, and I would be absolutely _ruined_ if this got out!" He glanced at Celcílie, who was eyeing them like a predator would its prey.

Arthur almost opened his mouth to speak, but then he realised that doing so would bring him into further contact with Francis' disgusting hand, so he thought better of it. The words danced on the tip of his tongue.

 _Maybe you shouldn't have done it then. Why should I care what happens to you, anyway?_

He attempted to convey the message through an icy glare. Francis' expression steeled.

"Do you understand?" Francis demanded in a harsh whisper, eyes darting nervously around the room. Arthur rolled his eyes. He certainly was a man of many different faces. "Do _not_ mention that at _all,_ unless you are with just Michelle or I and you are absolutely certain you are not being watched."

He could fight, but then again, that would make _such_ a bad impression on his first day working for the _respectable_ House of Edelstein. And truly arguing with Francis was bound to be _so_ boring – Arthur was pretty sure German was his second language (though it was Arthur's, too) and he seemed just a bit lacking in intelligence. Therefore, the only way to get this man's _hand_ off his mouth was to agree to his terms. It wasn't like he cared whether some courtier got in trouble or not anyway.

Arthur nodded, and Francis removed his hand.

"Thank you," Francis offered a polite close-lipped smile, and his shoulders sagged in relief.

 _Nobles' priorities are so very frivolous. There's a changeling on the loose and he's worried about getting in trouble for visiting the cell block._

Their bowls were collected, and the main course was brought out on large, garnished platters – venison, sausage, roast duck, apples, baked potatoes, pastries – Arthur's mouth began to water. He would have to exhibit extreme self-restraint if he didn't want to make himself sick by eating too much. Alistair had trained him to ration food, to ignore hunger and, when food is available again, to slowly reintroduce it. The first time, Arthur didn't eat anything for a week, and then Alistair threw a feast. Arthur stuffed himself. Without going into detail, he regretted it afterward.

Across the table, Gilbert had his plate piled high with food, which didn't help Arthur's case. Francis was more controlled, and he just had small portions of everything. Across the table, the woman Arthur saw before that had been yelling to anyone who would listen had even more stuff on her plate than Gilbert and was eating it with less restraint (not that Gilbert was, in any way, restrained). Ctirad and Celcílie continued on with their hushed conversation, and from what Arthur could catch, Celcílie was speculating about Francis' behavior earlier. Francis began talking to… Madeline, was it? She was very similar in appearance to the loud woman, from what Arthur could see, but her hair was a lighter colour and it was straighter.

Arthur sunk into his chair and waited for it all to be over, his stomach protesting loudly. He had forgotten how _boring_ formal dinners were. They were just so tedious, so scripted. Everyone always wore a mask in order to gain approval. Nobles were so self-serving. He sighed morosely. This was going to go on forever. He could feel a headache coming on from the thrum of people's conversations around the table, so he massaged his temples. This was such a dull night.

Someone tapped his shoulder, and Arthur whipped around with profanities dancing on his tongue. _"What!"_

Gilbert stood behind him, and Lady Héderváry waited on the sidelines, watching the conversation. When Arthur glanced back across the table, his seat was empty. How had he not realised? He was surely out of it tonight. "Hey, hey, no need to get so angry, _Artie._ I'm just supposed to tell you that tomorrow there will be a meeting with the Guard at eight o'clock sharp about the…situation. You get full command of all of us, so you're supposed to brief everyone on your plan, assuming you even have one."

"Of course I have a plan!" Arthur huffed indignantly. This was to cover up the fact that he did not have a plan.

"Right, right."

Lady Héderváry approached, glaring. _"Captain Beilschmidt,_ what else?"

Gilbert groaned loudly enough for Francis to turn for a moment questioningly before returning to his conversation with Madeline.

"I'll take you through the armoury after and you can choose a new sword," he droned.

Arthur frowned, dissatisfied. "What about Cluaran?"

Lady Héderváry gave him a warning look. "It has been…confiscated."

"So, you will give me _a_ sword,just not _my_ sword? How do you suppose that will be any safer?" Arthur demanded, anger rising again. That sword had been modelled for him. It was balanced, it was clean, it was reliable, and it had been with him for every mission since he turned thirteen.

"Because, Mister Kirkland –" she stopped short when Ctirad began clawing at the table.

"Oh, dear God," he whispered, his voice tight and shaky. "Oh, dear _God."_

"What? What's wrong?" Celcílie asked nervously, her hand coming to rest on his shoulder. "Is it your intolerance again?"

Arthur doubted very much that it was "intolerance". He could see the pure panic on his face, how it contorted it into someone so much younger. There was terror in his eyes. Celcílie had a similar expression on her face, but far less extreme – his was a primal horror. He almost looked haunted, staring off at nothing with glassy eyes too clear and too wide. A tear rolled down his cheek but there was no sound to go with it, no sob. He was visibly trembling.

Celcílie's expression morphed so that it almost matched his, but perhaps less distressed.

 _"What's wrong?!"_ she demanded loudly, and suddenly, everyone's attention was on him. A tense hush settled over the room. "Ctirad, _tell me!"_

She added something desperate on at the end of her sentence in a different language. Beside him, all colour had drained out of Francis' face. Lady Héderváry's hand was clapped over her mouth and Gilbert's eyes were wider than the dinner plates on the table.

 _"Pomôž mi, sestra!_ I c-cannot feel…" Ctirad's bottom lip quivered as he spoke.

He didn't finish the sentence, because his body went limp and his face slack. He slumped against the back of his chair and Celcílie let out a choked sob. Arthur's mind was blank with surprise, his brain scrambling to catch up.

"Is he…?" Gilbert began, and though he said it quietly, the room was so stiflingly silent that it sounded like he was yelling.

Arthur had to gather the courage to respond. "I think… I think he's breathing."

Ctirad's chest was rising and falling slowly. Up and down, up and down, up and down as the seconds dragged on into eternity. It felt like time had stopped. Someone screamed for a physician, but Arthur knew it was too late for that. Ctirad was dying. Francis got up and dashed from the room, mumbling something about being sick, but hardly anyone acknowledged him. Celcílie began talking to him soothingly in another language, probably the one they had been speaking before. Ctirad didn't answer her. Arthur couldn't tear his eyes away from Ctirad as his breaths became gradually slower until they stopped altogether, as Celcílie wailed, deep and sorrowful, and began weeping over his corpse. Everyone was too shocked to do anything. Even Arthur didn't expect this to happen.

"I can't watch this," Gilbert muttered, sounding very meek.

The room waited as Celcílie continued to sob. It felt far too long before she looked up with puffy red eyes and snot on her upper lip.

 _"You,"_ she began, fury raging in her eyes like wildfire. "You did this to him."

Arthur's eyes widened further than they already were. "Me?"

"Yes, _you._ Of course you, _Arthur Kirkland."_

"Why would I –?"

"You're an _assassin!_ It's your job!" Celcílie roared, livid. "You were obviously hired to…!" her voice broke and her volume dropped so low that Arthur could barely hear her. "…k-kill… him…"

Fresh tears began to slide down her face, and she clutched Ctirad's body protectively. "M-my… only brother…"

Arthur was taken aback. "I wouldn't – I wasn't hired to –"

Lady Héderváry placed a hand on Celcílie's shoulder and smiled sadly at her in a gentle, comforting, motherly way.

"It wasn't Mister Kirkland," she announced steadily, a grim expression setting on her face. Her voice resonated through the hall. "It was our changeling."

* * *

 **Celcílie: Czech  
**

 **Ctirad: Slovakia**

 **Roland: Kugelmugel**

 **Madeline: Nyo! Canada**

 **Lovina: Nyo! Romano**

 **Romeo: Seborga**

 **The action is finally picking up! Also, I'm so so so so so so sorry for not updating.** **I said weekly updates, but this is hardly weekly. It's been almost four months since I last updated! :( I'm such a bad procrastinator. It won't be weekly again for a while, because I'm starting two more multichapter fics, and so that means that I'll likely update one of them each week.** **Does this extra long chapter make up for it, dear reader? It's nearly twice as long as what I usually write! ;)  
**

 **I'm going to be going back and updating the old chapters because some of the information in them is outdated (I've further refined the plot, so some of the stuff in older chapters doesn't make sense anymore) and then chapter six will be out in two or three weeks once I organise the two other fics I'm planning.**

 **Also, the translation of the last thing Ctirad said before he died is "help me, sister!" It was Google Translate Slovakian though so I'm not sure how accurate it really is. If it's wrong, please feel free to correct me! Same goes for Arthur not eating much so he's not sick. I don't know how accurate that it, I just read it in a couple of books so it might be completely wrong or there might be conditions or something. I really don't know.  
**

 **Thanks for reading and please review y'all (I basically live for reviews haha)! Hasta luego!**


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